


neither lost nor found

by gracianasi



Series: waiting til the beat comes out [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Halloween, M/M, Magic Lessons, Tropes, Warlock!Bellamy, witch!Clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 08:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6603820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracianasi/pseuds/gracianasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake arrives on campus and Clarke's magic suddenly starts going haywire. </p><p>Or, Clarke meets another magic user and teaches him to control his gift--and learns some things along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	neither lost nor found

The way Clarke sees it, what happened that night at Raven's party was categorically not her fault. She'd expressly told Raven that she could not be held responsible for anything going awry; her magic was wrong lately--unexplainably, bafflingly wrong, like she was microscopically tilted off her axis--and it wouldn't listen to her, kept blowing cold air around her apartment, tilting picture frames sideways, making candle flames jump and shiver, turning her black cat orange. Wrong.

(It's not like Clarke didn't know why this was happening--she definitely knew why--but it's not like there was anything she could do about it. She would have to wait it out and hope that her magic would chill the fuck out. Eventually. So far that didn't seem likely. It'd been a week now and she'd literally resorted to sequestering herself in her and Wells' apartment, afraid of going outside and making something actually bad happen, rather than admittedly tame and innocuous shit like throwing around the decor in the apartment.

When she'd warned Raven about everything, she'd known that she wouldn't be taken seriously. Raven hated taking things seriously on principle. Raven had cracked a joke and promptly forgotten about it.)

Clarke is currently hiding in Raven's cramped powder room because she's chickenshit and can't even face her friends. This is possibly the worst thing that could ever happen to her, because magic was-- _is_ \--supposed to be the one thing about her that's solid, unshakeable, intrinsic. She's been working magic ever since she was a kid and her mom gave her her grandma's dusty old collection of grimoires. She knows that magic is rare and that none of her friends possess it. At least, none of them have until now.

_"You have to come tonight," Raven had wheedled, "Octavia's hot brother is coming! I've definitely told you about him."_

_"_ _He's the one you nailed in a bar a billion years ago, right," Clarke had said, scrunching her nose._

_Raven grinned, showing teeth. "He's a huge nerd; you'll like him for sure."_

_If he was anything like Octavia, she'd mused while helping Raven set up, she'd be in for a long night._

So, like an idiot, she'd decided to go to Raven's after all. Meet the enigmatic elder Blake sibling. How could she have known about his magic?

For over a week she'd been aware of another--a _new_ \--magical presence on campus. Raven and Wells like to joke about Force sensitivity but that's honestly sort of what it's like for her. When she was a kid, learning to use magic--learning to feel its weight inside her, to map its edges and boundaries, its curling tendrils--she'd learned to recognize the feel of her mother's magic. It felt like safety, but also like blood and damage; her mom was a doctor after all. She'd been intimately connected to the feel and taste of her mom's magic--sharp, like the smell of antiseptic--and for years it was the only magic other than her own that she'd known. The middle and high schools that she'd gone to were small, and she hadn't detected any other magic users in those halls.

College turned out to be rather a clusterfuck by comparison; she'd almost passed out her first time on campus from the sheer _pressure_ of other peoples' magic. Strangers' magic. All at once, it was vast and devastating (and exciting, later, when she'd found her way back into her body again). She'd never experienced that level of magical interference in her brain. Now, in the third year of her BFA, Clarke is used to feeling strangers' magic poking at hers, usually curious, sometimes belligerent. Her sense doesn't extend over the whole campus--that kind of reach would be extreme and she's definitely not gifted enough for that kind of power--which is honestly a blessing, the less prodding magic she experiences the less headaches she gets, but she has a feeling that even if this new person appeared on the college campus two cities away she would still feel it deep in her bones.

(To clarify, the strongest magical presence she's ever felt before this caused her ears to ring and her temple to throb. This person... their magic is a literal fucking hurricane.)

She hadn't bothered to question it when Octavia had mentioned her brother was coming to their university for grad school; Octavia was fractious, ferocious, but she had about the same amount of magic as did her pair of boxing gloves. Clarke had naturally assumed that her brother didn't have magic either. She never took the time to match up the day her magic started freaking out with the day Octavia's brother arrived on campus.

 _Idiot_ , she tells herself, slumped on the rim of Raven's bathtub,  _I'm the biggest fucking idiot_. 

* * *

The day her magic goes to shit is otherwise a pretty innocuous day. She makes tea, flicking her fingers at the teapot to speed up the boiling water, and sets up her easel in the middle of the living room. She has to push the overstuffed, hideously orange flea market couch out of the way, so she rolls up her sleeves, mutters a quick incantation, jerks her wrist. The couch slides backward, hard, rucking up the old carpet and jostling the end table on which is stacked an admittedly hazardous array of flammable books and variously sized candles. Swearing, Clarke lunges, curls her fingers and twists her hands to keep the table's contents from interacting. And, because she's an idiot, she thinks nothing of any potential signs the universe is trying to communicate to her and gets on with her painting.

When Clarke paints, it's likes she loses control and inhibition. When Clarke paints, it's like her magic wakes up, channels through every limb, sets her skin on fire, makes her feel really alive. Makes her feel electric. Painting is the best way for Clarke to direct her magic, as though it's conducted from within her through her brushes and onto canvas. She sometimes wonders if she looks any different when she paints, if she lights up or just physically reflects the way her magic feels coursing through her. She knows that magic manifests differently for everyone; her mom's magic is expressed best through healing, and she's felt this other kid on campus a few times whose magic is potent--but gentle, not intrusive--and verdant and humid, like a greenhouse. She knows that some people's magic can darken and pervert, become corrupted, take on the consistency of sludge. She's felt that before too, and it's a spine-chilling feeling that she hates. Some magics are complementary, while some, upon interacting, are downright incendiary--and not in the good way.

So she spends most of the day painting and therefore supremely out of it, which partially accounts for her not immediately noticing that things have shifted just infinitesimally to the left of normal. When she finally gets out of her own head and can focus on the art she's created, she's a little bit shocked, because it's nothing like her usual art. Because magic is infused into every brushstroke, naturally her paintings take on a different quality: not quite living, but a subtle shifting. She's always had trouble explaining it. But this painting... it's darker, visceral, more frenetic than her normal work, kind of like the way she feels watching _Daredevil_ with Raven and Wells on TV night. Frankly, it's unsettling, and suddenly she can't help but feel chilled and upset. This painting isn't the result of her magic. Someone's else's magic swirls and curls within it, intimately tracing the lines she's created. She feels almost violated. 

A glance out the window shows that it's already dark out, and she wants to get rid of this thing before Wells gets back from his late class and notices her freaking out. She recites a charm to dry the paint on the canvas and rummages through the kitchen cupboards for a garbage bag. Before she can shove the canvas inside, though, she pauses to observe the painting more closely. It's full of bruises, dark blues and purples, a palette that she's never liked (she prefers lighter colours. She's been through enough dark shit, she doesn't need to reflect that in her art). Grudgingly, she admits to herself that it's... not pretty, but striking, at least. Chewing her lip, Clarke realizes that she's sagging from the toll of her magic and all but collapses onto the couch. Growling, running her fingers through her hair more sharply than she probably should, she gives up and decides to keep the damn painting.

Wells comes home to find her face-down on the couch, half the books from the bookshelf newly decorating the living room floor, candle flames shining unnaturally brightly. 

"Uh... everything okay?" he tries, kicking the door shut behind him and shouldering off his messenger bag. He receives a protracted grunt in reply. "Wanna, uh, talk about it?"

Clarke replies by maturely kicking her leg against the couch cushion. Lifts her head up and glares at him. "My magic is fucked up," she says tersely and returns her face to the couch.

"You probably shouldn't put your face there, it's a pretty dubious couch," Wells says, trying to lighten the mood. Clarke growls again. "I'll go make some tea."

By the time Wells comes back with her favourite mug, she's pulled herself up and is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the couch, hair twisted up on her head and held in place by used paintbrushes. There's a swipe of bruising purple on her cheekbone. Wells pretends not to notice.

"I see you've decided to do some redecorating," he says with as much tact as he can manage. Clarke snorts encouragingly. 

"I think something's wrong," she says, blowing magic into her tea to cool it down. When she takes a sip she finds it ice cold. Glaring at the mug in distaste, as if the contents are personally offensive, she groans, "the magic isn't cooperating with me. My painting sucks, the books started flying, the candles are on crack, and now my tea is colder than Hoth." 

Wells stifles a laugh. "What's wrong with the painting? I think it looks cool. It's, like, edgy. Was it a commission?"

"No," Clarke says miserably, sagging into Wells. "I think--I think someone crawled into my head and painted it. Is possession a thing? You know how I get when I paint--my magic is strong and flowy but I think my brain is unguarded, and someone could. Possess me. I think."

"Possess you... to do literally nothing but paint?" 

Clarke sighs. "No, yeah, it's not a thing. But I feel different; I've never felt so out of touch with the magic. Not since I was first learning to control it, anyway. Now suddenly I can't even properly cool my tea?"

"I hate to ask," Wells starts, "but would it have anything to do with stress?"

Clarke shakes her head emphatically. "I've been really stressed before and my magic has never acted up. It's too disciplined." She looks up at Wells and offers a small, insincere smile. "I'll be fine. I just need to sleep it off."

Lying in bed later, Clarke's head is still fuzzy and she's still as disoriented as she was earlier, coming out of her painting trance. Maybe, she reasons a week later (way too late by that time), that should have been another sign that the universe is trying to tell her something. 

* * *

 A sharp knock on the bathroom door disrupts Clarke's morose musings. "Hey, Clarke," Raven calls, gentler than Clarke ever thought Raven could be-- _definitely bad then_ \--"can I come in?"

Clarke sighs, twitches her index finger to unlock the door. Raven slides inside, locking the door again when she's in. Clarke appreciates it, but still can't quite look her friend in the eye. "I'm really sorry--" she starts, but Raven holds up her hand.

"That was some of the best drama I've seen all week, and I'm an engineer," she says, eyes dancing. "We're practically hardwired for drama." Clarke snorts at that but finds she can crack a smile. "Wanna tell me why you screamed at and punched Octavia's brother the minute he walked through the front door?"

Clarke flushes. "Shit. I did punch him, didn't I."

Raven barks a laugh. "Come on, spill the tea."

So Clarke does. "You know how I told you shit might go down tonight and that you can't hold me personally accountable for it? This is why. I should have seen it sooner but it never occurred to me."

"Seen what earlier? Have you met him before? Did he do something to you?"

"No," Clarke says, casting her eyes around to avoid Raven's gaze. "He's been interfering with my magic all week. Octavia's brother is a fucking warlock." 

She's met with silence, and she braves a look at Raven's face, which is studiously blank.

"Raven?" she tries. "Say something?"

What she comes up with is "Well, he was pretty  _magical_ in bed," eliciting a long, loud groan from Clarke, who buries her head in her hands. "Come on, stop hiding! Go talk to him. Haven't you always wanted another person to talk to about magic other than your mom? And now that you finally have one, you can't just let a black eye get in the way."

After that kind of pep talk, there's really no way Clarke could avoid Bellamy Blake. 

* * *

He finds her the next day on the fifth floor of the library, cross-legged on the ground in the farthest corner of the floor, three books hovering around her head. She doesn't hear him approach until he clears his throat right above her, and then of course she screams a little and her books tumble to the floor. 

"What the fuck," she hisses as quietly as she can, because it's  _the library_ , is nothing sacred to Bellamy Blake, "do you think you're doing, sneaking up on me like that?"

"Sorry," he says, eyes wide, and she can't help but notice how gravelly his voice is. She briefly wonders what it sounds like when he casts, but she shakes that out of her head because priorities. "Can we talk? I feel like we got off to a bad start last night."

Clarke snorts. And chews her lip. She can make out bruising around his eye behind his glasses (thick-framed  _nerd_ glasses, she notes) from where she'd punched him, and okay, maybe he hadn't deserved the punch. Given the absence of a headache right now, she can only guess that he's working to subdue his magic, which, okay, is pretty polite of him (not to mention astute, because she definitely didn't explain much last night before running home). It's got to take some effort though, which is why she doesn't outright ignore him. Also she figures he deserves an explanation.

Taking her silence for compliance, he says, "Can we go somewhere else? It's kind of dark and musty and there's a spiderweb on the ceiling."

Clarke raises her eyebrow but follows him to Grounders, the student-run cafe next door. They find a seat by the window, and Clarke covertly attempts her cooling charm again (no dice) and pinches the bridge of her nose in irritation. What sounds suspiciously like an aborted laugh comes from her companion, and she glares at him swiftly.

"It's just," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting, "I've had the same problem lately." 

Clarke's mouth tightens. "Is this your fault? Because if I find out it is, I will rescind my apology for punching you." She pauses for a moment, considers, and adds, "I'll probably punch you again."

Bellamy's answer is almost cutting. "Uh, it's as much your fault as mine, Princess." 

Eyes narrowing, Clarke bites out, "All I know is that my magic is normal until you set foot on campus, at which point the balance goes to shit and I'm destroying everything I touch. Also, you've ruined my creative process." She knows that last sentence came out sounding petulant, but it's out of her mouth now and she can't take it back.

(She could try, but with the way things are going, she would start casting and end up removing her own vocal chords.)

"Your creative process?" He scoffs, finger flicking the side of his coffee cup in agitation. "Your stupid flowery magic won't get out of my head and I have a thesis to write. My advisor is not impressed. If you could just back off with your magic--"

"I don't think you understand how magic works," Clarke says through gritted teeth, "because if you did you would understand that what you're asking me to do is impossible. I'm not deliberately throwing my magic at you! I'm not doing anything! You showed up suddenly and threw everything off--"

His finger is flicking the coffee cup harder, and Clarke glances down and sees the liquid inside turning from the light brown of milk-doctored coffee to black, sees steam rising and roiling. She narrows her eyes at the contents of the cup and he jerks his hand away when he sees what she's done: she's cooled the coffee back down, and thank fuck there's still something she can accomplish with her wonky magic.

"As I was saying," she says primly, watching his face tighten, "I can't just  _back off with my magic_. I wasn't projecting it in the first place." Seeing unease cross his face, she continues, "I actually have a few ideas about what happened. If you want to hear them."

He nods tersely, doesn't say anything else, so she takes a breath and launches into it. "The day you got here, I was painting in my apartment. I mostly channel my magic through my art--you know how everyone's magic manifests differently. When I paint, I'm not very cognizant of my surroundings; it's kind of like the magic takes over. I can stop it if I want to but it takes effort. When I finished the painting that day, it... wasn't like anything I've ever painted before. It was chaotic, turbulent. It took me a little while to figure it out but I realized that I wasn't the only one painting."

Bellamy's brows are furrowed and he opens his mouth to interrupt, but Clarke puts up her hand. "You were _in_ my mind. I'm pretty sure. Not on purpose, but I think because my mind is more receptive to manipulation when I'm channeling that much energy, some of your magic slipped in. Interacted with mine."

He's quiet for a couple of minutes and she lets him think, and neither of them touch their drinks. She stares out the window and then at the bar, where a sullen-looking barista in a beanie is chatting up a guy who feels familiar to her. She closes her eyes to find her magic, reaches out a spindly tendril, and feels out the guy's magic: he's leafy and humid. The greenhouse guy. Cracking open her eyes, she finds him looking back at her. His eyes are dark and warm, and she knows he feels her magic. 

Bellamy clears his throat across from her, and she tears her gaze away. "That's Monty Green," he says, gesturing to the guy. "The barista, Miller, is his boyfriend. He's my roommate," he adds, at her questioning look. Then, after a moment of hesitation, a little awkwardly, he asks, "You wouldn't happen to have any books on magic, would you?"

"Yeah," she says slowly, "I have all my grandma's old grimoires. You--you don't have any?"

He shakes his head, his cheeks flush. "I'm the only one in my family to have magic. As far as I know. I kept it hidden. Didn't even know I had it for most of my life." 

Clarke frowns and thinks,  _maybe that's why it's so wild._ Out loud, she says, "You should come to my place. I have a pretty good idea of what's going on."

He tries not to look too eager, she can tell, but there's a light in his eyes that wasn't there before. She notices that his glasses are smudged. 

"I think," she says, testing each word carefully before she says it to make sure it's true, "that your magic is untamed and you're not channeling it properly. That could be why I was practically assaulted by it. And I think that our magics are complementary; that could be why it's been affecting me--us--like it has. But I'll need to do some research to find out."

Bellamy Blake nods, and throws her untouched coffee cup in the trash for her (the barista with the beanie glares at them), and goes with her to her apartment, and spends hours poring over grimoires with some kind of insatiable hunger that breaks her heart.

* * *

Wells gets home, finds them eating out of takeout boxes in the living room surrounded by floating books, and bursts out laughing. He doesn't stop until he's in his room with the door closed. 

Bellamy raises an eyebrow but Clarke shrugs it off. "It's his coping mechanism," she says after swallowing her pad thai, "it helps him deal with the knowledge that magic exists." This elicits a half-smile from Bellamy, and Clarke feels for some reason like she won something. 

They sit for hours, companionably silent, skimming through old hand-inked spells and recipes, journal notes, casting suggestions. Finding nothing, until Bellamy sits up straighter, a little too energetically, making the force of his magic rush through the room and extinguish all the lights. When Clarke gets the candles lit again, it's to see a half-apologetic, half-amused look on Bellamy's face. The light of the candles casts a shadow over him, but she can still see the constellation of freckles running over his broad nose.

Recovering, Bellamy points to a page in the book he's holding. "This is a passage from some old writings on lore and witchcraft. It says that complementary elemental magics interact in unpredictable ways... you can tell they're complementary," he says with a wry grin, "because when in close proximity side effects such as instability and inconsistent workings are common."

"I still blame your untrained magic," Clarke grumbles, crawling forward to take a closer look at the passage. He's right; no doubt the effects of their magic interacting are exacerbated by his inexperience. "It's like a storm. It's aggressive and capricious and indiscriminate." She's worried that she's being too harsh on him, so she adds, "I was lucky to have someone to teach me. My mom," she says, when he glances at her. "She taught me everything she knew. Our magics are different--she uses hers for healing--but she taught me control and discipline. Basic incantations."

The look on Bellamy Blake's face makes Clarke want to hold his hand, but that would be stupid. "My mom..." he starts, but trails off. Doesn't pick up the end of the sentence. 

They spend the next while in relative quiet, speaking only when they need to, paging through the book Bellamy found for more wisdom. They don't find much else, but by the end of the night, they've got an arrangement: Clarke will help Bellamy learn to harness and channel his magic, in exchange for an introduction to Monty Green. After years and years spent alone with only her mother to confide in, to guide her, Clarke has found not one, but two magic users to talk to. She knows that there are others on campus, can feel them when she gets close, but none of them are intriguing and challenging in equal measure as Bellamy is, and none of them are as warm and trustworthy as Monty Green is (at least, according to the taste of his magic she's gotten). Clarke closes the door behind Bellamy when he leaves, and then leans heavily against it, and squeezes her eyes shut for good measure. She's not sure if there's anything guiding the universe, but she hopes as hard as she can that if there is, it won't fuck up her chance at some kind of happiness. She's tired of feeling separate from her friends--even though she knows they aren't deliberately trying to make her feel that way--and from the world. 

When she goes to her room, she hangs up her and Bellamy's painting above her bed. 

* * *

 It's a couple of days later and she and Bellamy are in her living room again, and his hair is messier than usual (he's been running his fingers through it in agitation) and his forest green sweater brings out the freckles on his cheeks (Clarke is studiously not noticing them). She's wearing her old paint-splattered overalls, and when she'd opened her door to him the corner of his mouth had quirked up at the splashes of colour. Her hair is held up by paintbrushes again (she's been working on a commission for Octavia's boyfriend, Lincoln) and there's a bright stripe of green on her jaw that she didn't have time to scrub off. He's standing across from her, the overburdened coffee table between them, looking tense for all his projected composure. Clarke tries to look encouraging but she's kind of freaked out too; she's not a teacher, and Bellamy's the first person that she's met who has magic. She doesn't know what she's doing and doesn't want to pretend that she does. 

"So," Bellamy says, drawing out the vowel. It's been a couple of minutes of them looking nervously at anything but each other. "Are we gonna get started?"

Her answering "yeah" comes out a little quavery for her liking, but she squares her shoulders. "Um, where did you learn about magic? When did you find out that you had it?"

He looks a little bit uncomfortable. "My mom died when I was a teenager, and I suddenly had a little sister to take care of." There's a hint of defiance colouring his voice when he says, "I'd basically been raising her all my life, but with my mom gone, it was suddenly--real. The first few months were rocky, and--a lot of shit got wrecked. I have a temper," he says wryly, like maybe she hasn't noticed, "and that, mixed with apparently latent magical abilities, got dangerous."

"So how did you figure out that's what it was?"

"Octavia. She'd met someone with magic, and she'd found out about it, and she convinced me that that's what it was. It took a fair bit of convincing on her part, but she introduced me to the magic worker and it all sort of fell into place."

"And you didn't learn anything from this person?" 

Bellamy shakes his head. "Not enough. We moved cities and lost touch."

Clarke nods absently. Meeting his gaze, she says, "You have a lot of power, Bellamy. I can feel it even when I'm not reaching out to find it. Before we get into actual casting, I want you to work on figuring out the extent of your magic." 

"Okay. How do I do that?"

She steps around the room, picking up and replacing candles as she goes. She finds a few mildly scented ones and waves her fingers over them, lighting them. "It's kind of like meditation, I guess. Or, that's the closest approximation to it. The way my mom taught me, at least. You have to go into your own head and poke around."

At his raised eyebrow, she smiles a little and settles cross-legged onto the couch. "Get comfortable, because it'll probably take a while."

He stays standing, probably just to irritate her. Closing his eyes, he says tightly, "I'm not really sure what's going to happen if I try to touch my magic. I've never really gone there before. Your place seems pretty flammable, what with all the fire and paper." 

She snorts. "Believe me, if it was a real hazard then it wouldn't be like this. And I'm right here, and I have your back." She pauses and tries out the words in her head before saying them: "you can trust me."

His eye twitches but stays closed. "I know. I knew the moment I felt your magic."

She doesn't answer, instead focusing on her own magic. Her eyes slide shut and immediately she can feel it, smell it, taste it; it's soft but strong, smells kind of like watermelon, and it rushes through her like wind, and sighs as it passes through her. She feels it past her fingertips, feels it collect in the soles of her feet, feels it seep between her eyelids and through her nose. She feels it in every strand of her hair. She knows this magic like she knows the back of her hand; she's always had it with her, steady and permanent. More than anything, it feels like home--if she's honest, a home she's never had. 

Peeking at Bellamy, she sees that his brow is furrowed in concentration and there's sweat gathering above his lip. She didn't expect him to get very far right away (it took her a week's worth of practice to get a clear feel for her magic), but she can tell that he's frustrated, wants to speed through the obstacles keeping him from his magic. She doesn't know how deep he is in the magic, but she's wary of pulling him out of it. She's heard stories of people, deep in thrall, being shaken out of it and accidentally unleashing power. She doesn't know if those stories are true, or just cautionary white lies that her mom hammered into her, but at any rate she doesn't want to risk anything. She goes to the kitchen and brews tea, turning her palms to face skyward to levitate two mugs in front of her as she goes carefully back to the living room. She sidesteps stray books and other tchotchkes littering the floor and perches on the couch. 

Bellamy's eyes crack open. "I don't feel any different." 

She hands him a mug of tea. "I've been thinking about the other day," she says, "when you found me in the library. I couldn't tell you were there at first--remember, you snuck up on me?"

He nods. "What does that have to do with this?"

"The point is that I couldn't feel you coming, even though the whole week before that it felt like your magic was trying to split my head open."

Bellamy frowns and sips his tea reflexively. "I didn't want to bother you," he says, "I'd spent the last week in a similar condition, although for me it was just a constant--presence in the back of my head. Not aggressive like mine was toward you."

"I didn't realize it, but after we met, your magic stopped pushing at me," Clarke says. "I'll admit that I was kind of out of it. But now that I'm thinking back on it, the pressure wasn't as great after I punched you." 

Bellamy's eyes adopt a curious glint. "Maybe that's the key," he muses. 

"What is?"

"Physical interaction. I know that the grimoire we were looking at didn't say anything about that, but it didn't really seem complete to me anyway."

"No, it was just a journal. Far from complete. One of my ancestors' records of observations."

It's quiet for a moment, and Clarke takes the opportunity to pluck a few dead leaves off one of her hanging plants. She thinks about Monty Green again, and thinks about how he could show her how to actually keep her plants alive.

Without warning, Bellamy springs into action, steps up close to her. "What are you doing?" Clarke says.

"Trying something," he huffs, and reaches out to take her hand. She's not expecting a spark, but there is one anyway, and even after it fizzles there's this new, constant thrumming --tingling--in her fingertips and where her skin meets Bellamy's. "See? Complementary magic."

"We already knew that," she scoffs, but for science reasons, she doesn't pull her hand away. 

Not needing prompting, Bellamy closes his eyes, and she starts counting the freckles on the lids before common sense tells her to rip her gaze away. "Try to visualize something," she says quietly, "like a fog or--or something incorporeal. To me your magic feels cool, and blue, and wild. Try to find that." Her eyes are closed too, and she feels rather than sees him nod. 

Nothing happens for an infinity of tense seconds but then she feels his spine stiffen. Knows that he's gotten hold of something. Encouraging, she reaches out with a branch of her magic, trying to guide his attention. He follows it pretty easily, traces his attention over the knots and dips of the bough she's extended--visual stimulation makes it easier the first few times, she knows--and his fingers tighten around hers and she knows he's found it. She can't help but smile at that. He starts shaking, though, and she's pretty sure he can't handle his rampant magic in addition to hers. So she pulls her fingers from his and steps back, watches him sway on his feet for a moment, watches him open his eyes and smile the kind of smile that could bring her to her knees.

* * *

It's a Friday night and her little apartment is brim-full of people. Wells, Raven, Octavia, Lincoln, Bellamy, Monty Green (who makes her plants perk up, like, _immediately_  upon his arrival), and his boyfriend Miller (whose first name, she learns, is Nathan). She's not used to having more than three or four people stuffed into her living room at one time, they usually go to Raven's for big gatherings, but looking around at these people packed onto armchairs and her hideous couch... she feels  _light_. In a way she definitely hasn't since her dad died. She's been formally introduced to Monty, who is soft-spoken but decidedly kind and he gives her tips on plant care and reveals a water bottle full of homemade moonshine. So that's a thing.

It's been an hour or two, and Clarke feels like she's going to burst, not completely because of the moonshine, and not in a bad way at all, and Miller and Monty are sitting with their fingers tangled and their heads close together, and Octavia and Lincoln are cuddling her cat (who's back to black now, thank god). Raven and Wells are trying to convince her and Bellamy to play Catan but Clarke can barely string a sentence together in her head, let alone play a board game. She and Bellamy catch each other's eyes and burst out laughing for no reason.

Yeah, it's pretty great.

The last thing Clarke remembers is Bellamy hoisting her into his arms, muttering "time for bed, drunky," and tossing her onto her bed. Then she's asleep.

When she wakes up, it's to find her cat enthusiastically licking her forehead and the midmorning sun peeking in through her open window. Octavia and Raven are in bed beside her, and when she pulls an overlarge sweater over her head and shuffles out of her room, she glances into Wells' room and sees Monty and Miller curled up in each other on the bed. Smiling to herself, Clarke moves through the living room, careful not to make too much noise--Bellamy's fast asleep on her couch--and deposits dirty dishes and cups into the kitchen sink. Wells is sitting on the tiny balcony, looking pensive and doing his best impression of The Thinker.

"Good morning," he says brightly as she perches on the shitty plastic deck chair beside him. "Sleep well?"

"I slept like the dead," she says with relish, but notices that Wells' eyes are blank. "What's wrong?"

Wells sighs; he's never been able to keep anything from her. They have that in common. "I'm just being maudlin out here all alone, trying to convince myself that you're not gonna leave me for these new people you're meeting." He catches her look and flushes. "I know it's dumb, but I guess I just feel like you've got more in common with them than with me. You know, they're like you."

Clarke is consumed by affection for Wells, her first and best friend. "You're an idiot," she says, but she says it with love, and that's what matters. She curls her arm through his, and they sit there for a few minutes, taking in the crappy view of the dumpy building next to theirs. "I've felt like an outsider for most of my life. Never when I'm with you, though. And these people... they're good ones."

Wells makes pancakes for everyone, and he realizes he's running out of batter halfway through and dilutes it with water. The pancakes end up pretty weak and tasteless but Clarke is feeding on the energy of these new people, these marvellous people with their magic and they  _like_ her. 

 After everyone leaves, collectively grumbling about the lasting effects of Monty's potent-as-hell moonshine, Bellamy hangs back to help clean up. 

"I'm too dead to teach you any magic today," Clarke says, half-apologetically, half-sternly. Bellamy looks up from the stack of plates he's trying (and actually succeeding) to levitate.

"That's not what I'm here for," he says, confused, and Clarke, like an idiot, realizes too late that Bellamy is here because he is her friend too. 

* * *

 

Sometime during the day Clarke remembers that she's a student and has actual schoolwork to do, so she hauls her ass to the library and gets comfortable in her secluded corner on the fifth floor. She spells the floor softer and settles in for a few hours. She ignores her phone and slogs through half an essay for her art history class, and when she emerges from the library it's dark outside. Her place isn't far from campus, only about ten minutes' walking, but when she factors in darkness and chilly late-September air, ten minutes can feel like an hour.

"Hey, Clarke!" the voice makes her stop in her tracks and her magic boil to the surface of her skin.

She turns around, sighs, really doesn't want to do this right now. "Finn. I thought I'd told you to leave me alone."

His eyebrows draw together. "Clarke, I really think we should just talk--"

Wishing she could spell his voice away, Clarke violently rolls her eyes (gives herself a major headache too) and turns back around, and almost runs right into Bellamy's chest.

"Bellamy?"

His eyes look different than she's ever seen them: they're darker, meaner. His mouth is tight and his thick arms are crossed against his chest. "Are you okay?"

Bewildered, and then sort of pissed when her brain catches up, Clarke groans and says, "Bellamy, I don't need--never mind." She turns back to Finn and says as vehemently as she can, " _stop_ following me." She grabs Bellamy's arm and pulls him along after her.

They've been walking for a few minutes when Bellamy clears his throat to speak. "Uh, sorry, but--"

"Ex," Clarke says shortly, not wanting to talk. 

They lapse into silence again, and Clarke only slows her stride when her building comes into view. Bellamy doesn't say anything as they walk up the flights of stairs to her place, doesn't say anything when she holds the door open for him, just sits on the couch and waits. She thinks about making tea but doesn't trust herself not to burn the building down in her agitation. She paces for a few seconds, but then she gets a little dizzy and decides to just sit down instead. She has to clear off a pile of loose paper from the armchair before she sits, but she feels like she doesn't really want to share the couch with Bellamy right now.

"I felt your magic," he says finally, by way of explanation for his sudden appearance. "I was at Grounders, and then suddenly the part of my head where your magic is--I don't really know how to describe it. It was like a red flag, like it was telling me 'Clarke's upset.' I thought you might be in trouble." he has the decency to look slightly abashed, but she's really too exhausted to care about being mad at him.

"I'm not mad at you," she says, and rubs her eyes. "You didn't need to get involved, though. I handled it just fine. He's harmless; he'll back off." Bellamy looks interested in the story there, but Clarke doesn't really feel like telling it at this time of night, and she knows he won't come right out and ask. "You can crash on the couch if you want. I'm going to sleep."

Bellamy shakes his head. "It's okay. I should be getting home."

Clarke, who is too tired for everything, it seems, says "goodnight, Bellamy" (maybe putting more weight into his name than she should), leaves him standing uncertainly in her living room and closes her bedroom door behind her. 

* * *

She doesn't see Bellamy for another week, and by that point she's going a little bit crazy because of it, until she has coffee with Octavia who tells her to quit being an asshole and just text Bellamy already because he's being an asshole, too. This startles a laugh out of Clarke (although to be fair she shouldn't be surprised by anything Octavia says anymore, the girl is fearless) and she finally gets over herself and does as Octavia says. She meets Bellamy at his place the next day.

"Miller's not here," he says, opening the door for her. She's brought apology cookies because she's the worst and also chickenshit, and she feels lame. "He's out at the orchard with Monty. They're going to try baking apple pie later; Monty thinks if he uses enough magic it'll compensate for their baking inexperience." Clarke laughs nervously. 

"I, um, I brought cookies. I only used magic to speed up the oven time because I was running late," and god she knows that she's babbling but she  _can't fucking stop_ , "Uh, the last time I used magic to bake, it didn't really. Well. There might have been an explosion. So." Clarke takes a break from talking to look at Bellamy's face, and it's open and warm and there is forgiveness in his eyes. Why are his eyes so honest?

"Thanks, Clarke." he says her name the way she'd said his the last time they'd been together: purposefully, dangerously, heavily, with a challenge. He says her name the best out of everyone. 

"So, um, have you tried finding your magic again?" she sheds her coat but keeps her scarf, feels like it's one more protective barrier between her and Bellamy. She winds her fingers into it and feels comforted. "Why am I even asking; I know you did."

"Yeah, I mean, I've gone farther with it. I remember you told me to try to--map it?" she nods encouragingly, and he continues, "so I've tried it again. And again, and again. And now I think I'm pretty good at it." he rubs at the back of his neck.

Clarke is impressed; she'd thought he might need her to anchor him again before he got the hang of it himself. "So do you feel like you can touch your magic more easily? Or at least, does it take less time for you to find it?"

He nods. "Before I came here, the magic was sort of dormant, it only woke up when I was angry or emotional. Now, when I look for it, I can feel it, and I think it's calmer."

"It'll get easier every time you do it," Clarke tells him, taking a few steps into the apartment. The walls are bracketed by shelves of books, likely academic ones relating to Bellamy's and Millers' fields of study. Clarke knows that Bellamy's studying Classics, but she's not sure about Miller. "I think, if you're ready, we can move on to channeling."

She explains to him that channeling is sort of a foundation for casting and incantations. Some actions, like lighting candles or locking doors, don't necessarily require spells. She remembers that he'd levitated plates after the party at her apartment a week ago with some success, so she gets him to try again. He breaks a few, and then a few more, and she fixes them all (imperfectly, because she's neglected her household spell-work, so there are visible lines where the pieces have been fused back together). She instructs him to pull the magic from within him, and to focus it on what he's trying to do, and the trick is, she tells him, seeing sweat beading on his forehead, seeing his crazy hair stand on end, not to pull too much magic. 

 "I think of nature," she tells him, frowning slightly, eyes half-lidded, as she pulls a branch of her magic and directs it toward the stack of plates sitting on the coffee table. "I don't know why, because it's definitely not my area"--Bellamy snorts and she knows he's thinking of her poor half-dead plants--"but I guess it's because it's an effective visual. Instead of sending a cloud of magic at something, I'm wrapping a concentrated branch around it."

Bellamy nods, and his fingers fidget like he wants to be writing this down. Clarke finds this hilarious.

When they're done practicing magic, drained and feeling vaguely victorious, they eat Clarke's apology cookies and she doodles his face on a napkin. It's not the best likeness, it's too small to be very accurate, and she hasn't gotten the look of his eyes right, but the Bellamy she's drawn still seems a little bit like he's breathing. When the real Bellamy leans over and looks, he blinks hard and stares at her.

"Your hair is glowing," he observes.

Clarke grabs a chunk of it and pulls it so she can see better. It's faint, but it's there: a yellowy glow. "I usually get more deep into my art," she says thoughtfully, "and I never really notice my surroundings. I've always wondered if the magic alters me when I'm casting it like that, but once I get into it I forget to check." Bellamy's eyes are following the curling strands of her hair, and the corner of his mouth ticks up. His lips press together for a second, and then he smiles fully, like he was trying to hold it back but he's given up. 

"I wish my hair glowed," he says, and then more seriously, "I don't know what my area is." Clarke touches his hand, barely notices when he absently fits their palms together.

"You'll figure it out," she says. "It'll probably take some time. Patience, young Padawan." 

Bellamy disentangles their hands to flick her on the nose. __

* * *

 

Halloween is coming up, and Bellamy jokingly asks Clarke if she has a cauldron and if she'll dress up like a witch.

"I'm actually old and grey and I have warts on my nose," she tells him, letting him inside and closing the door before the biting wind has a chance to slip inside too. "I just cast a very strong illusion charm to pretend that I'm pretty and youthful."

 Shucking his coat, Bellamy barks a laugh and scratches her cat's head. "Well, it's worked on me."

Clarke chews on her lip, and brings her half-empty mug of tea to the sink for something to do with her hands. She calls from the kitchen, "Do you want anything? Tea? We have apple cider, but it's been heavily diluted by Monty's moonshine." she feels more than hears Bellamy approach, and he reaches over her head to the mug cupboard.

"Thanks," he says lowly, "but I'm holding off on Monty's moonshine until Raven's Halloween party." she definitely doesn't shiver at the deep cadence of his voice.

"Halloween is my favourite," she says, watching his (strong, sure) fingers snap over the kettle to boil the water more quickly. He channels and casts differently than she does, she's noticed, but she thinks that that's normal; her mom's movements were always jerky, while Clarke learned that her best results came from gentler movements. Apparently Bellamy's workings turn out better with firm actions.

"Mine too," he says thoughtfully, like he has no idea the obscene thoughts she's thinking about his fingers, "I always took Octavia trick-or-treating when she was little."

When they're back in the living room they settle onto the couch, and he reaches for her hands. In the past few weeks, they've settled into a pretty regular routine: when they're casting (Clarke has given up on her role as Bellamy's teacher, because he learns quickly and because she's also the student in this scenario). His magic is fierce, elemental, different from hers. Her magic is quick to rise, but Clarke prefers not to let that happen too often. 

They clasp hands and close their eyes. When they cast like this, Clarke has no idea what's going to happen, and honestly the intrigue is  _killing her_ and giving her life at the same time.

She reaches out for his magic, less tentative than she was only a month ago--their magics are familiar with each other by now--and latches onto it, feels her spine straightening, feels his magic dancing up her vertebrae, caressing her skull. She lets her magic roam across the ridges of his knuckles and over the skin of his palms, tracing the heartlines and lifelines. Dimly, she registers books shifting restlessly on the shelf, the wind chimes on the balcony tinkling, the candles blazing alight. A breeze picks up and rustles her hair. She feels hot and cold and like she could feed on this, this magic, forever, and still be hungry for more.

Opening her eyes, she sees Bellamy staring at her--her eyes, her mouth, her wild hair, her mouth again--

And suddenly the wind has died, the candles go out, a few books fall to the floor. Wells is shrugging out of his coat and tossing his messenger bag onto the armchair.

"I hate having a late class," he complains, and then pauses to take in the sight of Clarke and Bellamy, huddled together on the couch, looking, for all Clarke knows, like two windswept crazy people with fire in their eyes. "Uh..."

After Wells has retreated to his room, Clarke belatedly realizes that her fingers are still tangled in Bellamy's. She pulls away, feeling him resist and then slacken. She clears her throat, once, twice. Doesn't know what words to use.

"Clarke," Bellamy says carefully, like he think's she'll break. She can't look at his eyes. They're always so real. "Clarke, that was..."

"Yeah," she says, and her voice is just  _wrecked_. Shit. "Yeah."

She doesn't wait for him to say anything else, just shuffles over to her bedroom, exhausted from the magic, leaves the door open. Too tired to care, she takes off her shirt and bra and slides into one of her dad's old sweatshirts. Climbing into bed, she finally hears movement and her bedroom door closes and Bellamy Blake is in her bedroom. He looks uncertain, which is a look on his face that she isn't used to. He takes off his glasses, places them carefully on her bedside table on top of some watercolours. He does a double-take when he sees her-- _their_ \--painting above her bed, and she knows he recognizes his magic in it. She can't keep her eyes open, and she curls down into the duvet, and the bed dips and he's right there beside her. In her bed. Bellamy. 

He sighs, and there's moonlight coming in soft from the window, and she's falling asleep, and she can't see the look on his face, and she finds his hand and holds onto it.

In the morning, her bed is empty and her head is fuzzy. There's a tingling in her fingers that means she's touched Bellamy's skin recently, and she licks her lips and rubs the sleep from her eyes. She's not bothered that he isn't there when she wakes up, but she feels better when she finds a note in the kitchen beside a plate of cinnamon toast charmed to keep warm. The note says,  _Early meeting with advisor. You snore in your sleep. -B._ She snorts and folds up the note, and incinerates it with the tip of her finger for good measure.

* * *

 

The morning of Raven's Halloween party, it's a Sunday, and Clarke wakes up late and catches up on  _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ while she eats her Lucky Charms. There's a knock on the door, and she leaves the episode playing on her laptop while she lets Bellamy in. Crunching her cereal, she looks him over and pats down his wind-wild curls. 

"Morning," he grunts. Bellamy Blake is not a morning person. She offers him the rest of her cereal, and he makes a face at the sogginess but accepts the bowl.

"I'll let you actually wake up before we start casting," she says generously, and puts her laptop away. She putters around the kitchen for a few minutes, absently tidying things and watering her plants. They're starting to look a lot healthier now that Monty is a regular houseguest. 

Returning to the living room, she sees Bellamy on the couch and feels (stupidly) nervous. Ever since that time a few weeks ago when their casting got a little (a lot) out of hand, she's been nervous to connect with his magic again. Doesn't know what she'll do if she goes in that deep again. Their ensuing workings have been focused on incantation and pronunciation; Clarke is afraid to touch him for too long. But today is Halloween, and for some reason she feels like something fundamental is going to change, and she'd be a fool to get in it's way. 

Throwing herself down beside Bellamy, she turns toward him and holds out her hands. His blank face is betrayed by his glittering eyes (the lenses on his stupid glasses are still smudged), and instead of reaching for her hands, his fingers slide up her arms and grasp her elbows. Clarke thinks she gasps but she's too far gone to tell; his magic sweeps over, into her almost immediately, like a dam's broken; she digs her fingers into his skin, dimly notes that she's never touched this much of him before. This kind of immersion into another person's magic feels like the most intimate thing she's ever experienced. His eyes won't let her go.

Suddenly, the working shudders and Clarke can't even feel or see anything, and when she comes back to herself, Bellamy is so close and--

She's not sure who moves first, but one of them moves, or both of them do, and anyway his lips are on hers, and oh. 

He kisses like he casts: unrestrained and hungry. His mouth slides over hers, his tongue is electric, his hands fist in her hair, and she's so swept up in the magic that she can hear both their hearts beating. He doesn't pull back, and she doesn't pull back, and their mouths meet again and again, he gets her lip between his teeth, and she tugs at his hair. They kiss until their hearts stop racing, until the magic calms, and then they trade long, languid kisses until the cat jumps up between them and forces them apart.

"Bellamy--" she starts. His eyes trace the planes of her face, and he reaches out to tug at her hair.

"You're glowing," he says. "Not just your hair. All of you."

She gets lost again and finally lets herself count his freckles. His hands (strong, gentle) move over her hips, pull her in closer.

"What time is it," he grumbles.

They fall asleep.

* * *

 

Clarke and Bellamy walk to Raven's together. He's carrying the cider, hair slicked back (not her favourite look), and she's busy fiddling with her witch's hat without dropping her broom.

"Remind me again why you think slicking your hair back makes you look like a warlock," she mutters. Bellamy doesn't reply, just smirks.

"Do you know anything about pie magic?" Miller asks at the door, scratching the back of his head. "Turns out that Monty, uh, really doesn't." 

They dance to "The Monster Mash," because they're losers, and Octavia and Bellamy tell scary stories. Clarke reaches out and takes Wells' hand, and they all get way too drunk from the moonshine cider.

When the party's over, Wells crashes on Raven's couch and Clarke and Bellamy walk home together. He tosses his coat over the armchair and she runs her fingers through his now-crackly hair, trying to dislodge the gel. When he finishes washing it out, she's on her bed, hair piled on her head with paintbrushes, wearing stripy pyjama pants and Bellamy's green sweater. There's a swipe of paint on her chin--she's finishing up a watercolour--and he thumbs it off. 

"Bellamy," she says.

"Clarke," he says.

The air crackles with magic.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first work for The 100. I figured that since I inhale The 100 fic at an alarming rate I might as well contribute to it... with a 9k monster. Title from "Holland Road" by Mumford & Sons. Tell me what you think :)


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